by James R Benn
"Jeez, some guys have no sense of larceny," Sweeney said. With a show of reluctance, he lifted a heavily laden bandolier from around his neck, an ammo bandolier, in the same camouflage pattern as the paratrooper's smock. There were six pockets on each side, secured by metal snaps. Sweeney opened one, and even in the dark, by dim moonlight, it glittered, filled with gold coins, the German eagle on one side, Kaiser Wilhelm on the other. Kaiser Bill, my dad would have called him. There were lots of Kaiser Bills, and I understood the look on Sweeney's face.
"Don't worry," I said to him. "I knew about the gold. There wasn't a chance you could've gotten away with it."
"That's a relief, Lieutenant. They're all yours then. Damn things are heavy." I put on the bandolier and felt the straps dig into my shoulders. That was a big drawback to gold. It was valuable, sure, but in any quantity it was like lugging around a cast-iron stove.
"Anything else?" Masters asked.
"Yeah, sniper rifle," Sweeney said. He held out a Kar98k, the standard German infantry rifle, fitted with a Zeiss scope.
"The other Kraut must have had one too," Masters said. "And Taggart has had us in his sights."
"Think he got around the rear guard?" I said. Masters looked down into the valley, the dark mountainsides vanishing into murky gloom beneath us. Then he looked to the east, where a thin line of pink light showed at the horizon.
"He knows what he's doing, so, yeah, we should count on his being below us. And dawn isn't far away. We need to hustle after him right now or else stay put. It'll be light enough for him to pick us off in thirty minutes, unless he's hightailing it out of here. What do you think?"
"Taggart won't be able to resist taking another shot at us," Slaine said. "Especially since we have half his money."
I nodded. There were ten of us now but that wouldn't seem like impossible odds to a guy with a sniper rifle hidden in the rocks, a few hundred yards separating us from him. Throw in a touch of derangement, and it would seem like a sure thing.
"OK. Let's go." Masters led this time, point being the most dangerous spot. We ran in the darkness, against the dawn that would illuminate us, keeping our heads down, watching the ground and risking glances at the terrain ahead, waiting for a shot to find us. We passed the icehouse and went into the trees, hopping from rock to rock in the stream until that became impossible. We caught our breath in the woods off the path, soaked in sweat, gulping in mouthfuls of air.
Pop pop pop. Pop pop. Gunfire sounded below us. It was too far away to be aimed at us, but each of us tightened our shoulders and hunched low. The shots increased; the loud, rapid fire of a BAR stood out.
"The jeeps," Masters said. "It's coming from the jeeps, by the bridge."
"But we didn't leave anyone there," I said. "Who's being shot at?"
"I don't know," Masters said, "but I'm tired of this bastard running rings around us. If he's caught up in a firefight, we have a chance to take him."
Masters had a plan. He split his men into two groups, each taking one side of the trail, heading for the jeeps. He took one, Sergeant Farrell the other; one of them was bound to outflank Taggart. Slaine and I were to wait two minutes then go straight down the path. I think we were an afterthought, and Masters simply wanted us out of the way. They vanished into the woods, and I checked my watch. The gunfire continued, small bursts punctuated by single shots, the kind of shooting that goes on when both sides are under cover and no one wants to expose themselves.
"Do you think all will be forgiven if you bring in Taggart?" I asked Slaine.
"Accounts will be settled as far as I'm concerned," she said. "Then they can chuck me out of the service or assign me to file papers and make tea, I don't care."
"But you did care about keeping things in balance."
"In case you haven't noticed, the world becomes an awful place otherwise. Someone has to do something to maintain order. I did, and ultimately I failed. But I did try."
A breeze rustled the leaves around us, and I thought of the ghosts of Ireland, all the souls lost in the struggles with the British, and with our own people. Some of those ghosts were my ancestors, and one was Slaine's father, shot dead for ordering armed men to halt as they sought to alter balance. The breeze gusted, turning into a howl, swirling the branches around us. Slaine put her hand out and held onto my arm. Her touch was electric. I took her hand. I kissed her, felt her press against me, and then we broke apart. We stared at each other a moment, the branches still whipping around our faces. We didn't speak as we started down the path, to the place where people were killing each other.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
One of the jeeps was in flames. The smell of burning tires and gasoline drifted into the trees. Rolling black smoke surrounded us, giving us added cover as we slowly crept down the path, trying to puzzle out who was doing the shooting. Occasionally a round zipped through the trees around us or a yell emerged from the chaos below, curses laced with Irish accents between bursts of lead. We edged closer, the emerging sun and the light of the fire revealing at least one body near the burning jeep. It looked like it wore an RUC uniform but in the murky smoke I couldn't be sure.
Rapid bursts came from our left. Slaine tapped my arm and pointed. I could see the muzzle flashes across the small stone bridge, coming from a jumble of boulders on the far side. BARs. Pistols and rifles responded from behind the jeeps, but that group seemed outnumbered and outgunned. Slaine ran ahead to a better vantage point, rose from a crouch, and fired her Sten gun at the BARs, guessing that was Taggart and his gang. She emptied her clip, and as she ducked to reload, both groups aimed their fire in our direction, unsure of who we were, and worried about their flanks. We were showered with leaves and small branches until the firing let up.
"Wait," I said. "Wait until Masters opens up. They're too far away. He'll drive them out into the open." She worked the bolt on her Sten, giving me an icy look. She wanted blood, and she wanted it now.
"Taggart!" a voice yelled out. "Give yourself up in the name of the Crown!"
That was Carrick, and although I thought him a smart policeman, I wasn't sure this was the best choice of words. The only reply was a volley of fire.
"Taggart," another voice boomed out. "This is Dan Boyle. Give up now, man, there's nowhere for you to go!"
"Damn you all," Taggart screamed back and began firing again. This time it was an assault, not a standoff. I caught a glimpse of Taggart, waving men on. He had the sniper rifle and a half dozen or so BAR-wielding gunmen followed him, blasting away at the jeeps and the few RUC huddled behind them, along with my Uncle Dan. I stood and fired at Taggart, and Slaine did the same, but the distance was too great for accuracy. We dove for cover as one man sprayed BAR fire in our direction. Bullets smacked into tree trunks and ricocheted off rocks as we covered our heads.
A new source of heavy fire broke out, driving the IRA men back. It was Masters's group, running and firing as they came alongside the RUC, dropping two BAR men in their tracks. Then Sergeant Farrell's men arrived from the other direction, creating a deadly cross fire. The IRA gunmen scattered, seeking shelter among the rocks.
"Get down," I said, pulling on Slaine. "There's too much lead flying around."
"My bloody weapon is jammed anyway," she said, banging on the bolt. We kept our heads down, listening to yells and howling voices while M1s and Thompsons overwhelmed the staccato sound of the BARs. It was extraordinarily loud, the way combat is when men shoot at each other up close, seeing the look on their enemy's face as they pull the trigger, rage, fear, and blood lust ripping screams from the throats of the living and the dying. Emerging from the all-enveloping sound was a new one, a man thrashing his way through the undergrowth, branches snapping, boots pounding on uneven ground, grunts and gasps as he strained at vegetation in his way, drawing nearer as the sounds of the fight below dwindled. I held my automatic at the ready, trying to pinpoint the direction of the sound, swinging it back and forth as to ward off a wild beast from the woods. Slaine ejected the
jammed rounds from her weapon and scrambled to put in a new clip, her eyes wide with fear.
Taggart burst through the bushes, his face covered in blood, his mouth twisted in rage. He held a revolver in one hand, the other covered with a hasty bandage, soaked red.
"You! Goddamn you both!" Spit flew from his mouth as he cursed us. He looked like the devil, blood staining his skin red, the wild look in his eyes as maniacal as it was gleeful. I pulled the trigger but the shot went wide. I pulled it again and got nothing but the click of an empty magazine. Taggart grinned, and then pointed his revolver at Slaine, empty Sten gun in one hand, full clip in the other. He pulled the trigger, shot her in the chest, and grinned even wider. I watched her fall as he aimed the pistol at me and fired. I saw the blast, a bright orange flame shooting out, but I didn't feel a thing. I looked at my left arm and saw a neat hole just above the elbow, black scorched edges turning red.
"Next one will be in the head," Taggart said as he grabbed me by the collar, dragging me along with him. I tried to find Slaine but everything was hazy. I've been shot, I kept saying to myself. He shot me. I felt blood dripping thickly down my arm. He did it on purpose, I thought. Just enough to put me in shock yet keep me on my feet. Smart guy, I had to give him that, as he propelled me down the path, right to a gaggle of armed men who wanted him dead. I felt the hot barrel of his revolver pressed behind my ear as he jammed it against my head, his other hand firm on my shoulder. "Try anything funny and I'll take you with me," he hissed.
"Don't shoot!" Taggart yelled. "Don't shoot or the Yank is dead." He hid behind me as much as he could, tightening his grip on my shoulder. As sweat streamed across my face I felt his hot breath, smelled blood. His hand was covered in it. It was warm and sticky against my neck, and for a second I wondered if he really was the devil, carrying me off to hell. I knew it was shock but I felt strangely in his power, this bleeding demon driving me through the woods.
"Hold," Carrick said. "Don't move."
"Oh, I'll move, I will, or you'll be picking up the pieces of this bastard Yank's skull."
"You'll be dead within seconds if you do that," Carrick said reasonably as he walked closer, casually reloading his Webley revolver. Uncle Dan was behind him, his gun hand down at his side, his eyes darting everywhere. He moved two steps to his left.
"We all have to die," Taggart said. "I don't care, it's as simple as that. It would bring me joy."
"Why don't you care?" Uncle Dan asked. "You have all that money you stole."
"Ah, you must be the enforcer from Boston. I've heard about you. Working with the RUC, are you? Strange bedfellows, eh? Now put down your weapons, and order your men to do the same."
"Where can you go?" Carrick asked. "We'll find you." He hadn't put his gun down.
Masters and his men had rounded up the wounded IRA men and those who hadn't gotten away. They were on the other side of the bridge, too far away to intercede. Two RUC constables were closer, and looked to Carrick for direction.
"No, I'll find you," Taggart said. "And you'll pay, you'll all pay."
"For your wife and children?" I asked, struggling to get the words out. He ground the barrel of the pistol against my skull.
"No, he's nothing more than a crook," Uncle Dan said, taking one step forward. "He was stealing from us long before they died."
"Stop!" Taggart said. "It's everything, all of my wrongs. My family, my mother, killed. My half brother, hounded out of Dublin for who he was. We were going to get even for all the failures, all the deaths, the senseless brutality. You have no idea what I saw in Spain. What I did there, what I did here. What was it for? So the Irish could live like contented sheep? Or serve the British? When Breeda and the kids were killed by the bloody Germans, that's when I decided to bring you all down, to let you all feel the pain. And you will, whether I live or die. The money would have been nice but you can't have everything. I've come to prefer chaos myself."
"Just one question, Taggart," Uncle Dan said. "Just one."
"What?" He spoke through gritted teeth, eager to get on either with his escape or his big exit.
"Do you know Sammy Bazzinoti?"
I felt the muscles in Taggart's hand tighten. I went slack, dropping my head and letting my feet fold at the ankles, trying to be deadweight. I saw Uncle Dan raise his gun hand, closed my eyes, and waited. I heard the shot, thunderously loud, and felt the spray of hot blood at the back of my head. I fell out of Taggart's iron grip and went down on my knees, praying the blood wasn't mine.
"My God," I heard Carrick say. "Quite a shot."
"Slaine," I managed to get out. "He shot her, up there." I tried to point but pain stabbed through my left arm as I tried to raise it. I turned to use the other. Carrick sent out a constable, followed by a couple of GIs with medic packs. Uncle Dan kicked the pistol from Taggart's hand but it was nothing more than a routine cop gesture. The shot had gone neatly through his right eye, exploding out the back in a much messier fashion.
"How bad is Subaltern O'Brien?" Carrick asked. I noticed he was bleeding too, holding a handkerchief to one leg.
"I don't know. He shot her point-blank, then hit me in the arm and dragged me down here."
"And who is this Sammy character?" Carrick asked Uncle Dan.
"Sammy Bazzinoti owns a nice deli back in Boston. He was robbed at gunpoint, and it went bad. A cop was coming in just as the guy was pulling his gun. Young rookie name of Billy. The guy takes Sammy hostage, puts a gun to his head. I get called to the scene, and Billy's got it all contained, all the other customers are out. So I go in to see what I can do. Sammy sees me with my gun out and faints dead away. The guy loses his grip and I plug him. End of story."
"He shot him in the right eye," I said.
"Steady hand you've got there," Carrick said as he stared at Taggart's corpse. "Too bad you didn't get to recover the money you came for."
"I didn't come for money," Uncle Dan said, gazing at the corpse.
Then I felt dizzy. Someone tried to keep me from falling but it was lights-out.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
I woke in an ambulance, Uncle Dan by my side, supporting me. We were perched on a fold-down bench seat. Opposite us I made out Slaine on a stretcher, being attended to by a nurse. Her face was white. Her shirt had been cut away, and there was a compress bandage pressed to her chest, far enough to the right that it looked like the bullet had missed her heart. Maybe. The nurse had an IV working and held the stretcher steady as the ambulance rumbled over an uneven road. My coat and shirt had disappeared. I looked at my arm, saw the bandage. It started to hurt. The pain cut through the hazy veil of shock and fatigue.
"How is she?" I asked, surprised that my voice came out in a tight croak. Uncle Dan put a canteen in my good hand and I drank.
"She's alive but I can't tell how bad the damage is. Still, alive is good, and we should be at the base hospital in a minute."
"Which base?"
"Ballykinler. It's the closest hospital."
Ballykinler. Where it all started. The theft of the BARs, Pete Brennan, Thornton, Andrew Jenkins, Carrick, Taggart, Sam Burnham, all the names involved in this mess had passed through Ballykinler at some point. But the list seemed incomplete. I was missing somebody, something, and I tried to fix a face in my mind, but all I saw was Uncle Dan, leaning close, his hand on mine.
"You did good, Billy. Your father'll be proud when I tell him, he will."
His words felt like water, cleansing me, washing over me and carrying me home. I rested my head on his shoulder and wondered if Slaine felt her father's distant pride. If she lived, I could ask her. And if I could remember who the missing face was, everything might be OK. But I couldn't keep my eyes open and fell asleep in my uncle's arms, as I had so long ago, chugging back into Cohasset Harbor, into the setting sun, the silence of men sweet in my dreams.
"WHAT… where am I?" My eyelids were heavy with deep sleep and I blinked, trying to pry them apart and figure out what this place was. I was in bed on
a nice soft mattress and under white sheets. I was wearing pajamas, and after the last day and night I was ready to stop fighting and lie back. Enjoy it, a small voice told me. But then a more insistent sound clamored inside my head, asking who I was missing. Who was the missing link? Just to shut the voice up so I could sleep, I gathered enough energy to open both eyes and look around, hoisting myself up on my good arm.
I was in a hospital room. Bandaged arm, I remembered that. Everything else seemed OK. I rubbed my hand on my neck where Taggart had pressed the barrel of his pistol. It was bruised and sore. I swung my feet off the bed and let them hang there as I stared at the other bed in the room, occupied by Uncle Dan, shoes off, tie loose, softly snoring. I looked around for a clock, then saw my wristwatch on the table. It was after one o'clock. Five or six hours, maybe, since the fight at the bridge.
The fight. That was one of the things bothering me. How did Taggart's men know to be there? When had he summoned them? No one else knew we were going after him. For that matter, how did Carrick find us? Slaine hadn't told anyone where we were going. I wanted to know how she was doing too, but business came first.
"Uncle Dan," I said. He snored even louder. I sat on the edge of his bed, to shake him awake.
"What? Billy, how are you feeling? How's the arm?"
"It hurts like the devil. Never mind that now. How did you know where to look for us? At the bridge."
"Hugh brought me along when we got the call about Simms. When I couldn't find you, I asked him to call the base over in Newcastle, and the officer there said you'd gone up the mountain with a squad of men. When we got to the jeeps, they opened fire. They must have been waiting for you."
"But they couldn't have been. Except for the executive officer, no one else knew where we were headed, and even he didn't know why we were going or who we were after."
